Please, boys, please/
Be careful with that cheese/
For the Beefy Cheese Louise/
If anything should happen/
You'll put me in a squeeze/
You'll bring me to my knees/

mercredi, novembre 15, 2006

SONGS BY THE PARANOIDS

____________________________________________In trees, MANIACAL, CHILDISH krauts in tiger.LAUGHTER But one day was mucho fraudulent, roaring arterial.High-pitched squeals. Of dread. The director.SMASH! Finds distinction. Begins to vanish.Unlucky enough to see it. Down forever.The terrible shapes irrevocably: “Are we oncamera?” “Copy that jabbering.” Systematichis eyes for green neon. Unvoiced at anyedge believed. Then be coy: “So, you’re anactor? Have you met Infanticide?” Saygoodnight, terrible nakedness.____________________________________________

____________________________________________Plan from whom early. By all periodic.Reconnoitering. Is not too clear. Bones in r&dFished up. Listening. Then the wind. The minutes taking her. [absence in grey suits]Up thecliffs to phase. & Bones to travel. “You know,blokes, they’ve been listening.” Cut to scene:“My heart isn’t in it on that XKE w h i l e temporarily insane.” Dim hope. Floralembellishment. Out of some such labyrinth. Died everyone dumbly. “I doubt it got writtendown.” Day & night, plunging, enfilading fire! Trees to build rafts!Till she reached r o ck y b ea c h. Which indeed they were.____________________________________________

____________________________________________“I hear laughing.” Alarmed. Retired. Got dress-ed and went out looking. His suit out.Through the water mark. What back his headto do the Buddhist. Whom soon postwar. Make the farewell flick. He found it impossible.[Away present] jolted out of jumping the stackinto insistent

____________________________________________Songs by The Para-noids. The play. Till he comes of age.Seek. & then finessing. Enormous cannon.Native. The costumes gorgeous. 17thCentury. And deep. Of kissing every.Intention letting him live so long. Their rising.Coils & clouds. Taking her. [All rigidity] like mythical fluid. The minutes rolling. Cut to scene:Dead. Black. Fugue of guitars. Till she reached.Which in fact she repeated.____________________________________________

Raymond Farr great foe: being a poem composed of lines taken from Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49